Spinning down a thin gray thread of highway, our tiny rental-pod rocking with the force of a rhythmic, pounding rain careening on its inexorable trajectory into the past- time running backwards.. Spindly black cypress stumps huddle together in the dead (…)

Sorrowful stories I hear all that’s shown His posturish shiver on his things And she’s always known Things from the forest die here But I don’t Dead forest things are offered here But I’m not Vassals live lies Their faith (…)